


The Overlooked Case of a Blogger Who Read Too Much

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction, Fluff, M/M, RPF as a theme, Spying, What if John and Sherlock were real people?, Writing, Writing Advice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: John finds AO3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just had a small reflection how weird it would be if John stumbled upon in-universe RPF section of AO3 and all "our" Sherlock fics were there as RPF stories... ;)
> 
> (switching this to WIP and I'll be adding random fluff from now on, because there is no such thing in the world as TOO MUCH FLUFF, right?)

Sherlock was in a hurry.

Usually, when he moved in that fashion - tearing around the room, collecting various needed tools, looking for his lockpick set - John moved out of his way almost by instinct. On that particular afternoon he had collided with his blogger’s stiff form no less than five times as he careened past the sofa.

“You could move your legs out of the way, John” he snarled. “Some of us are actually _working_ , you know, and not sitting around like useless lumps.”

John tilted his head slightly to the side and blinked, slowly.

“John? John, what are you…” he looked at his flatmate closer. “John?”

A long, slow, deliberate lip lick.

“John, have you sustained a brain injury during the chase yesterday?”

The blue, unreadable eyes rose to meet his.

“No” John’s voice was almost - _almost_ \- steady. “I’m fine, thank you, Sherlock.”

“Why are you sitting like this, then?”

John frowned and peered closer at his screen.

“Reading an interesting article” he said in a measured voice.

“Dear God, what can be _that_ interesting?” Sherlock took a step closer, but John quickly tapped something on his keyboard.

“None of your business” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that!” Sherlock proclaimed, reaching for the laptop, which was suddenly snatched away and held up.

“No! You have to finally accept that there is such a concept as privacy! And I’m entitled to it!”

Sherlock snorted and lunged for the computer, catching it before John could stop him, simply by the virtue of having much longer arms. Satisfied and watching cautiously as John threw his head back in surrender, he tapped the combination to reopen the last closed tab.

“’Advice for amateur authors’? Really, John? You were trying to hide something that… pedestrian?” he pushed the computer back to its owner.

“You always complain about my writing style” John’s lower lip was just on the verge of jutting out and trembling. “I wanted to… I was looking for some advice on how… Ah, fuck it. Nevermind. Not your bloody business, Sherlock!”  
He stood up quickly, letting John pass by him, his laptop tightly clasped under his arm.

“And don’t you even _try_ making fun of me! I am trying and I am improving. Not everyone is a bloody genius with additional support from his brother. Some of us have to work on being good. Or acceptable. So I’m working on it.”

“John…”

“Not. A. Word. I hoped you would be happy I’m trying to make my posts better. But obviously I can’t expect even a modicum of respect from you. Very well. Good night, Sherlock. Don’t get arrested trying to break in to that office, Lestrade is on vacation.”

“I…”

John’s steps up the stair were even and angry.

#

John collapsed on his bed, breathing in relief. Sherlock just reopened the last closed tab, not the previously closed ones.

He tapped ctrl+shift+T and the search page on AO3 opened. With slightly trembling hands, he picked his and Sherlock’s name as characters and run the search.

_Over seventy thousand stories. Wow._

He scrolled down a little bit and the additional descriptive tags caught his eye.

Praise Kink

Hurt/Comfort

Nightmares

Fluff and Smut

_Ha bloody ha._

_If only these kids knew._

He clicked on Edit Your Search and started adding tags, filtering the results further.

He had a whole Sherlock-free afternoon to look forward to.

Sort by word count.

_Bloody hell, these are **long**._

_Very well._

_Ah, perfect._

He leaned back and clicked through the author’s notes.

He would have to learn what all these tags were supposed to mean, one day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More exploration of AO3 ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more exploration of AO3.
> 
> What else is John going to find? ;)

"I'm going to Harry's for the weekend. She needs some help with a doctor that is overseeing her broken leg. Apparently the bloke doesn't understand she needs to avoid certain meds."

Sherlock grunted something, wrapping himself tighter in his coat.

"See you on Monday. I have the day off at the clinic, so I'll be taking a midday train back."

Another grunt.

"There is milk and eggs in the fridge. You can eat them or... whatever, just don't heat them in the microwave. If you do, I'll ask Mycroft to hide your violin."

"You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would. I hope you can survive three days without me, Sherlock."

"I've survived thirty years without your assistance!"

John nodded amiably and marched out, a weekend bag in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.

_First rule to follow if your roomie or sibling is an annoying nosy shit: Never browse from home network if you wish to keep it secret._

Which was obvious in its simplicity and he couldn't believe he never thought about it before.

_Second: Incognito mode helps, but doesn't make it perfectly safe. Don't trust incognito mode._

He was thankful he never trusted it, in fact, even once he learnt there was such a thing.

_Third: If you feel like someone is watching you read, someone probably is._

Which would be Mycroft, in his case.

_Fourth: Just put a piece of tape over that camera, you ninny. No, not transparent one._

A little scrap of post-it worked perfectly.

_Fifth: The secret of a laptop that contains no smut is that there are, in fact, two laptops._

Yeah. That was the part he was planning to deal with that weekend.

He spent the train ride to Harry's browsing through some of the main tags and laughing at them quietly.

_Fluff. Hah. Fluff. I'd give them **fluff**. Fluff is what I chase from under the sofa after he is done picking threads from the blanket. Sometimes I think I'll be able to put together a new sheep out of these._

_Angst. Oh, this one we have as much as you could wish. Angst in tonnes._

_Alternate Universe... wow, and, what, we are... vampire, well, that suits him. Yeah. I totally see it..._

_..._

_What the fuck is omegaverse?_

John pursed his lips and googled. Then he clicked around a bit.

_Um._

He put the laptop aside for a moment and tried watching the trees outside.

_Wow._

He gingerly opened the screen again and scrolled, looking at the summaries.

_Wow._

He discreetly fished out his water bottle and took a healthy swig.

He clicked the first one.

_His... what. On my... and then... Ugh. AND WHAT?_

_Nope. Nope nope nope._

He quickly clicked back and away. Fluff. Fluff sounded safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to Harry's and some shopping

"I have to admit, the meds he suggested aren't optimal in your situation?"

"You  _think_?" Harry rolled her eyes. "I mean, I only told him three times I'm a recovered alcoholic. Maybe I should have hit him with an empty bottle...?"

"No, no. It's not very well received. I will talk to him tomorrow morning. Now, you stretch that leg and I'll make you tea. Do you need me to do any shopping?"

"Nah" she pointed to a large box. "Ordering groceries online. Being immobilised like this makes one inventive. But a tea would be nice, ta."

He busied himself with the kettle as she shuffled through her deck of DVDs.

"I have that new Bond movie you wanted to watch" she reminded him as he carried the tray to the low table.

"Perfect. Just need to nip out for one little errand and I can join you for a relaxing evening with some sexy spies in suits."

She glanced at him suspiciously, but picked up her mug.

"Do you still have contacts with that bloke that used to hack computers at the school lab?"

She frowned.

"Daniel, yes. Why? I can proba... No, even better. He works at a computer store in the mall now, actually. One of my classmates married him."

"I need to buy a new laptop."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, but picked her mobile and clicked a contact.

#

"Nosy flatmate, you say?"

John nodded reluctantly.

"I'm not a computer whiz" he sighed. "And the bloody git guesses my passwords. Actually, even if I did put a better security, he would try to break it because he would  _know_ that I have something interesting on it. And I want to start writing a..." he blushed. "A novel. And he will make fun of me if he finds it."

Daniel glanced up.

"That's basics" he snorted. "The bigger the lock, the bigger the treasure behind the door."

John licked his lips nervously.

"So, what I need is" he gestured "kind of a decoy? I mean, I have my current laptop, the one he hacks. And if I keep using it for normal random stuff, he will just see I'm using it like normal. What I need is a  _second_ laptop, secured, cyphered, whatever it is, and I'd keep it at work, in my office. This way he will never know, but at the same time, if someone else, less interested, breaks into my stuff, they won't be able to work out anything on the actually important system. Does this make sense?"

Daniel patted his arm.

"Makes perfect sense. Mr Nosy will keep thinking you have one laptop, so he keeps hacking it and finding nothing. You could actually download some juicy content to it just for him to find and be satisfied. The second laptop you keep at work, or rent a locker or... whatever. You never use the same network to connect to both of them. Use a separate google account for the second one. If you visit similar sites, create a different handle. Basically, split online personalities."

John blinked quickly and looked at the slim, dull-silver laptop Daniel had turned towards him.

"And if he is nosy enough, you'd better not pay with a card. Even better, don't pay it whole today. You are Harry's little bro, we can go through her and Mariana. They meet for coffee every other week."

"Wow, really... Thanks. So, how much?"

"Oh, this one isn't that expensive. And I'll give you ten percent off just for the fun of pulling one over on Sherlock Holmes."

#

"So what's the deal with the sleek new toy, Johnny?"

He glanced up at her with a smile.

"I want to finally be able to work on my writing without interfering git of a flatmate learning about it too early."

She nodded and hobbled back to the sofa.

"Smart. Where will you keep it?"

"My office. The desk drawer has a lock, the cabinet has a lock and I don't share the office with anyone. So, unless someone does this on purpose..."

"How long before he works it out?"

He shrugged.

"Gonna keep using my old laptop at home, to throw him off. We'll see. I hope I can get at least three, four months of writing before he works it out."

#

On Monday afternoon Sherlock was in full strop mode and John gratefully sneaked around him to his room. The set of keys to Harry's flat joined his own on his ring, so another, locker-sized one didn't immediately draw attention. All good.

"John, did you bring milk?"

"Sherlock, I've been away for three days. At Harry's!"

"Oh" the detective looked up. "So... who made the toast yesterday?"

John only glanced at the counter and sighed at the sight of blackened plastic of the toaster.

"You burned the toaster, great. Well, no matter. I'm knackered. Goodnight."

#

He threw himself on his bed and pulled the laptop to sit on his stomach.

_Now, what do we check today... Ah. I think 'soldier John' has a nice ring to it._

_And let's filter it down... 'praise kink'._

_Actually, right now, I kind of hope Mycroft is snooping on me._

He giggled quietly and opened the first story in a new tab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a totally random thing, I'm afraid ;>
> 
> Ok, which subcategory of Sherlock should John check out tomorrow? :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dives deeper and discovers AUs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3AM and I can't sleep...

There was something decadent about spending his evenings like that. After a day at the clinic (culminated by an hour of actually writing a piece of text that was  _not_ his blog and then fifteen minutes... twen... ok, ok, half an ho... no, really, no more than an hour of browsing under the "Fluff" tag) he had some stories chosen and so he opened a number of inconsequential sites or writer advice, editing your own text, self-publishing and even some vanity publishing offers, hiding the AO3 tabs interspersed between them.

He hadn't yet felt up to commenting under the stories, but the Kudos button was the greatest invention since sliced bread and he used it generously. His primary handle, "johnny_was_here", was nicely generic and yet somewhat personal, so today was going to be te day. After two weeks of lurking and reading the stories, working out the system of tags and reading everyone else's comments, he was going to praise some of the chosen stories actively.

_Yay._

He felt a bit apprehensive about the interaction with what was, in essence,  _their_ fandom, but what the hell. YOLO. Or whatever.

There were several stories that had promising summaries (and tags... finally he learnt to read these properly) in what was called "Coffeeshop AU". Not too long, not too short, just perfect if he wanted to read more than one that evening.

#

_Three hours later._

These people were:

1\. Inventive

2\. Creative

3\. Really bored

4\. Obsessed

5\. Sometimes somewhat creepy

Of course they got a lot of details wrong. How could they not. Still, whatever was public record and generally know, had been put to use. Their coffee drinking preferences, Sherlock's innate brusqueness, his preference for less flaky pastry, Lestrade's well-documented weakness for chocolate, Mycroft's distaste with chain coffee stores... Or with the world in general. He wondered how deep would the shock have been if the fans/authors ever found out the exact breadth of Mycroft's capabilities.

He smiled as he typed a small praise of a comment on yet another cute story and closed the tab with a small sigh.

Sherlock as an obnoxious cafe patron, wooed into (more or less) normalcy by the cute blonde barista. _Yeah, sure._

Sherlock as an all-knowing barista, deducing a cute blonde customer.  _I wish._

Sherlock as an innocent, wide-eyed ballet student...  _What???_

Click, click.

_Ballet!Lock. WOW._

He browsed through the category, mouth dry of excitement. Settling on one of the stories (and hiding the laptop temporarily under his mattress), he went downstairs to fetch some water.

In the middle of their living room, Sherlock was stretching, pulling his leg behind his head with both hands.

In his pants.

"Sherlock, it's half past one. Are you alright?"

"Obviously, John. If I weren't, I would have called the nearest medical professional to attend to me. It's just exercise."

"M-hm" said the nearest medical professional. "And why are you exercising in this way... in the middle of our room?"

Sherlock slowly lowered the leg and stretched to the side, extending one impossibly long foot up and to the front.

"Because we don't have the barre. I wanted to review some moves from ballet, but without a proper barre it's not the same" he grimaced. "Why are  _you_ up?"

John shrugged and tightened the tie on his robe.

"Just needed some water. Goodnight then. Don't pull a muscle. And don't try any jumps over Mrs Hudson's head. The poor dear's life is hard enough with us as it is."

He definitely needed something cold to drink after what he had just witnessed.

_What would the authors of all Ballet!Lock stories say to **that** , hah._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is trying to work out what is going on.

Sherlock was getting annoyed with John.

Ever since the trip to Harry - more or less, he was still in the process of pinpointing the exact date - John had began spending more time in the clinic, coming back unreasonably smiling and carefully guarding his laptop. He also stopped spending as much time downstairs, but after watching the evening news (sometimes not even that) and eating some kind of dinner, he escaped upstairs, where he spent the rest of his evenings quietly, not even typing all that much.

He wasn't wanking. That much Sherlock could ascertain.

He wasn't watching anything on his laptop - unless he had bought new headphones.

He was obviously reading a lot, judging by the measured tap of the Space key when he scrolled down a page.

What could John Watson be reading for three weeks in a row, every evening?

Sherlock pulled out a book about yoga poses he had acquired at some point and searched for a position he almost remembered (but had deleted due to its sheer uselessness - it supposedly enhanced the thinking process). After carefully going through the breathing exercise and requisite stretching, he carefully arranged his limbs according to the picture. Still, no new thought came to mind, except maybe for a reflexion that the carpet needed better vacuuming, because the close-up view he was now getting of the variety of refuse nestling in it was rather disturbing. On the other hand, keeping it as it was would give him wonderful area for future study - if he remembered to perform the same exercise every, let's say, five days and observed the same part of the carpet from that angle...

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock!"

He jumped a bit, John's voice coming at him rather unexpectedly. The position was not very conductive to his thinking process, but it definitely affected his observation skills - he was so focused on the dirt that he never even noticed John's presence.

"What the fuck are you trying to do?" the doctor stood above him, smirking. "Are you a cat, or what? Here, kitty kitty, come, dinnertime."

Sherlock unwound himself slowly from the rather complicated pose and snorted.

"Hardly. Just trying out a meditation pose I have been eyeing for some time."

"M-hmm. And now that you have unknotted yourself, would you be willing to meditate on some dinner?"

He pulled himself taller.

"Meditation is a valid technique that helps one's mind..."

John rolled his eyes.

_Rolled his eyes._

Indulgently.

"Come to the table and eat your dinner. You can tell me all about it _after_ I'm convinced you hadn't included some other techniques - like starvation. You are _not_ on a case, you eat."

John was... smiling. Kindly.

That was profoundly unsettling.

 

#

 

He had cracked, finally, and checked John's room. The laptop was nowhere to be seen - at the first glance.

Thorough inspection allowed him to unearth it in a place that he would actually call imaginative - back of John's wardrobe, behind the sock and pants drawers.

_Interesting._

John had actually taken initiative and made a proper attempt at _not_ letting Sherlock access his computer easily.

A quick perusal of the browsing history brought up the usual - twitter (John was following some celebrities and a few scientifically inclined persons), John's blog, news, youtube, various blogs on urban gardening, catalogue of garden implements and seeds from the local home improvement store, cinema programme, various quiz and puzzle pages, an animated postcard site and several internet meme collections.

Also, a significant amount of blogs containing advice on amateur writing, blog maintenance, book writing.

He sighed, just a bit.

_He was quite serious._

_Maybe I should have been more..._

He took a look at the time and hastily closed the windows, bringing the system to the state he had found it in and stashed the laptop where it was, going downstairs to assume a relaxed pose before John would be arriving.

 

#

 

Another week had passed and John continued his weird pattern of behaviour - early up, early to leave (Sherlock had checked, he definitely never had to start his work at the clinic at such an abominable hour), late back, early to bed.

And...

...and there were the other things. Unexpected things.

Weird looks when John thought he wasn't looking.

Smiles without any reason whatsoever.

Eyes looking dreamily at the empty wall.

John opening his mouth as if to say something, but keeping silent.

And that infernal, unconscious lip licking.

Sometimes John would look at the table, trace a line with his finger and smile languidly, half-closing his eyes.

At least three times he daydreamed when washing dishes.

Sherlock was on a verge of starting an observation sheet for... whatever that was.

Two weeks after the last attempt, he broke again. He _needed_ data.

John's laptop was in the bag with his old army shoes, wrapped in a black bin liner.

The history looked quite similar - some writing advice, some publishers' pages, lots of social media, lots of cutesy kittens, youtube.

The erased history was more interesting, in a manner of speaking. It looked as if John had been doing some kind of research. Flower symbolism? Ranks of angels? US Army traditions? What the hell was that crap?

He carefully returned the laptop to its original location and wandered downstairs to search for the same topics on his own computer. Maybe there was something linking these topics that he had missed.

 

#

 

Irish lace, a recipe for French crepes and a detailed essay on varied methods of dyeing agate.

 

#

 

History of coffee cultivation, techniques of tempering chocolate and a site detailing the differences between chewy and cakey chocolate chip cookies (these John had actually tried out in their kitchen and they had been, Sherlock had to admit, quite delicious. Not that he would have ever said it aloud.

 

#

 

When another week passed and what he found in the erased history was an essay on the history of marshmallow fluff, an Amazon page offering 55 gallon lube container and a Gutenberg Project subpage listing all Verne's books in French Sherlock decided that John was doing one of the two - planning a particularly nasty crime or writing a book.

_A book._

An original (not that much, knowing John) - _not_ about them, about their adventures - but something completely _unrelated_.

That evening he again put John's laptop where he had found it (under the dresser, behind a removed toe kick) and retired to his room. He needed time to analyse his feelings regarding that...

That evening John had lingered for a bit in the sitting room, which felt just like it ought to - comforting and a bit distracting at the same time - and Sherlock mentally leaned into it, basking in that sunny, amiable presence. He retold John the small but fascinating case he had during the day (he considered calling John in for that, but decided against - not enough time and John lately treasured his working hours...) and felt properly gratified when his flatmate showered him with praise.

And even a pat on the shoulder, which turned into a little squeeze.

"Very nicely done, Sherlock" John said before releasing the slight hold. "I hope you managed to get the point across to the police before scampering away with the evidence."

"John!"

"I know you. You are brilliant, but a madman."

"Well... I just took one of the handkerchiefs to check the monogram against."

"Sherlock... You know what Greg says about evidence."

He sighed. Aaand all the feeling - gone.

"But it was brilliant anyway" a light pat and John was going upstairs.

The little glow was restored and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from smiling for the rest of the evening, even as he made quiet observations regarding John's movements upstairs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's First Time.  
> Posting a story, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea why, but these two keep showing up and derailing me from writing other stories.

That was the day.

John had read _a lot_.

He checked each AU he found, ordering them by his personal reaction, from "unreadable" to "will follow the tag when I work out how". He checked each of the major tags and made a ranking of these, too. There were things that creeped him out (Omegaverse was barely tolerable, but D/s area was... no, just no, no), rather disturbing genres that kept him awake for two nights in a row (Dark!John was not a tag that would ever make him check a story again) and a lot of, frankly, mediocre ideas or poorly written casefics.

What he loved and would have gladly read more of were the Soulmate AUs. Even if mixed with Omegaverse or that weird Sentinel thing, it still seemed somehow comforting to think that in some other reality, some other London, that John found that other Sherlock and could just properly _live_ with him, doing everything that _he_ had no courage to even begin.

Another favourite - although at first he was apprehensive about the tag - quickly emerged. He went back to his chosen Fake Boyfriends stories and re-read them as a kind of comfort food for soul.

Not that he was imagining any of this.

Not at all.

**Not at all.**

Absolutely.

But he really, really wished there was a case in a gay bar sometime soon.

Not that he wished anyone to die spectacularly, but if there was something appropriate - maybe a theft or a nice robbery - he would be ready to make use of it. _More than ready._

A family wedding would have been even better, but they didn't have enough family members to have a wedding - Mycroft didn't seem like a marrying sort and Harry was kind of fed up with relationships for the time being. And none of these would have ever believed...

For a case it would have to be.

He sighed, then shook himself.

Now or never.

He logged in, to his _other_ account and clicked Post, then New Work.

Picking the rating, pairing and tags was a matter of seconds. Pasting in the story and checking the formatting - a few more.

_Post without Preview._

_Yeah. Now._

He clicked it, squeezing his eyes shut.

Nothing happened. No explosion, no smoke, nothing.

He slowly cracked open one eye and there it was, on his screen. His first posted story. 10k words, rating Teen.

Hits: 0.

Refresh.

Hits: 1.

_Argh._

He bit his knuckle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of Sherlock.  
> Sherlock is confused. And maybe a bit worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend I [made a resolution](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/post/177351768846/sign-up-august-24-26) to add a chapter to all of my main WIPs. This is just the first one finished :)

Sherlock had no idea what was going on, but something definitely _was_. It was impossible for John to just be reading damn articles about avoiding exposition, proper scene pacing and clothes descriptions. A detailed listing of all options of a man's suit. And different options of tuxedos. Really.

John wasn't supposed to be looking for such advice on the bloody internet! If he needed advice like that, Sherlock was there to provide it to him. He wouldn't even mock his blogger too much. Some, but not too much.

Also, John was behaving in a rather confusing way whenever they were in the same room.

Every morning he came down to the kitchen, made two mugs of tea and a small heap of toast. That was nothing new.

The new part was the way he cajoled Sherlock to partake in breakfast. There was a mug of tea (with a dollop of honey) insistently pushed into his hand, John's calloused fingers wrapping his own around the warm crockery. The toast was put on a big plate and buttered, a jar of honey and another of jam put in front of him and then John would chat with him, drawing the explanations of the latest cases or some experiment, all the while steadily putting next slices into Sherlock's hands.

Just the day before he had noticed that using that particular practice John manipulated him into eating _four_ pieces of toast. He was a bit angry with his blogger, but at the same felt a pang of admiration for the smart tactic his friend used. But Sherlock was onto him now. He would not be manipulated again. Not after today.

He sat on the sofa, surrounded by documents, a few dried out specimens of insects out on display, his nitrile gloves on and waited for John to rise.

He didn't have to wait long, since John took to beginning their day much earlier than he used to, and so about six-thirty he was coming downstairs, dressed and almost ready for the day at the clinic. He smiled at Sherlock absently, ordered him to make place for the plate and busied himself in the kitchen.

Sherlock moved the papers around a bit in order to provide the space needed for their breakfast and waited patiently, reading one of the files and - to all appearances - comparing whatever was in the files to the specimens on the table.

"Your tea, Sherlock" John extended the hand with his mug and waited patiently for him to notice it. He smiled and waggled his gloved fingers.

"Can't" he shrugged. "Don't want to contaminate..."

John's eyebrows went a bit up.

"I see" he shrugged and smiled lightly. "Well, there is a solution to that, too."

He set the tray with the plate and the mugs on the table, sat down next to Sherlock and picked up a piece of toast.

"Jam or honey?"

"John, I can't eat right now! Gloves!"

John sighed, still smiling.

"Jam or honey?"

He rolled his eyes at John's silliness.

"Jam then."

He watched as John proceeded to carefully cover the slice with a dollop of jam, spreading it evenly to all the edges. In moments like that, John's education and training showed in unexpected manner - the perfectly made bed, precisely cubed vegetables... and a slice of bread buttered exactly to the edge, with a layer of jam of uniform thickness all over.

And then the slice was carefully cut into quarters.

And one of these quarters was raised to his mouth and smirking John ordered him to open up.

_Shit._

 

#

 

John was halfway through his clinic hours when Sherlock had uncoiled himself from the place on the sofa where he had curled up in a snit after his ruse with the gloves failed to work. It was quite enough. He was going to apply special measures.

First, get the keystroke logger installed on John's laptop.

Second, install the logging software on their WIFI router.

One or the other would tell him what the heck had happened with John.

He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how, in shock, he had succumbed to being fed - like a baby bird, good thing John didn't take that analogy any further! - and helped to his tea, with John holding the mug at a precise angle to allow him to swallow the liquid safely.

"I used to nurse patients, you know. I do have practice" his friend told him as he mutely watched the mug being replaced on the tray. "We were always short staffed and even guys with both hands in casts have to eat. As long as their injuries allowed it, we wouldn't put them on IV, too, so we had to help them to drink pretty often. At least you are sitting up so I don't have to support your head, right?"

He had a flash vision of himself in bed - for whatever reason - and John carefully feeding him chicken broth or whatever was applicable in such situations. It did leave him a tiny bit short-breathed.

No matter. There were more pressing things to do right then.

 

#

 

Next two days were full of patient waiting, interspaced with John cooking full meals and feeding him said meals, John cleaning up and John stitching up a gash the suspect had managed to give Sherlock. The cleaning of the wound necessitated a lot of physical contact and Sherlock had to force himself _not_ to lean into John's warm, competent presence by his side as the doctor put neat little stitches in the long, shallow cut.

"Good thing the blade wasn't serrated" John's tense jaw told plainly how disturbed he was at the thought. "It would have been a shame..."

Sherlock frowned and looked at the spot on his arm John was cleaning.

"Serrated blades do significantly more damage" he agreed.

"I wouldn't have been able to stitch you up myself" John explained. "Not without leaving an unsightly scar. Which, as I said, would have been a shame."

"He didn't cut deep enough to damage the muscle" Sherlock didn't shrug his shoulders, but hoped his tone of voice was dismissive enough. John was behaving even more weirdly...

"Sherlock, it would have left an ugly mark across your arm" the doctor sighed. "Just saying. Now this will be a thin pink line and it will fade soon. Serrated knifes leave long-lasting reminders. And on your skin..." he trailed off. "Well."

"Do you have any?" he blurted out suddenly.

"Any what?" John asked absently as he put some numbing cream on the edge where he was planning to put the next stitch.

"Scar like that. Serrated edge. I've seen the wounds, but never an old scar."

His flatmate sighed.

"Yes, one" he licked his lips and looked away from Sherlock. "But... I can show you, alright? Just don't... don't comment or anything."

He nodded dumbly and John proceeded to unbuckle his belt and roll down his jeans.

Finally, just in his t-shirt and pants, he turned back to Sherlock and pointed out a long, jagged-edged line down his right thigh.

"A... no idea what he was. Came up to me with an old, rusty bread knife that he has sharpened himself, to give it a tip. He didn't nick any important blood vessels, but the wound got infected..." he swallowed. "Fortunately once healed it didn't affect my mobility, but it was a bit of a doubt for some time. I even got shipped to Europe to deal with it, but after a few weeks I was back, ready for duty and much more careful when checking if every body around me was in fact dead."

The mark was... ugly. Now pale pink, it contrasted with John's overall soft golden skin and the uneven edges made it look _angry_ somehow. And it was... It was bad. It didn't sit even with the rest of the skin. It was _wrong_.

"I see" Sherlock swallowed and looked away. "Yes. Definitely not something I would like to have on my arm."

John re-dressed himself and came back to probe at the cut, and finding it properly numb, he finished sewing it up, a small melancholy smile on his lips.

 

#

 

In the darkness of the sitting room, Sherlock contemplated for a moment whether he really ought to read the log from the router. John would have been miffed with this kind of intrusion on his privacy, and after the honest display today...

No. He had to know. There was something affecting his friend and he _had to know_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what will Sherlock find?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John interacts with his readers and Sherlock starts behaving weirdly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is becoming a much more serious story than I expected, but we'll be back to the scheduled silliness soon :)

John managed to keep away from his secondary e-mail account for two full days. Two days of hectic surgery work, of flu, snot, cough and varied organic fluids. Of screaming kids and wailing mothers, of acne-covered teenagers and complaining fathers. It seemed as if everyone in the area simply had to go down with something.

When Sarah prompted him to finish early on the third day, noting his weariness, he thanked her and promised to deal with some paperwork in return. Then he proceeded to shut the door, turn the light down and pull out his Secret Laptop.

Booting it up, he stalled the trembling of his hands (this time completely natural and correct!) by pressing them between his knees. He was shivering all over, but the hands were the worst.

System on.

Browser.

E-mail.

There were several e-mails from the fanfiction site...

 

Archive of Our Own [AO3] You've got kudos!

Archive of Our Own (3) [AO3] Comment on A Long Day

Archive of Our Own [AO3] You've got kudos!

Archive of Our Own (7) [AO3] Comment on A Long Day

Archive of Our Own [AO3] You've got kudos!

Archive of Our Own (4) [AO3] Comment on A Long Day

 

He took a long, calming breath. It was nothing. Just a silly, silly story about what soldiers could do if nothing happened for a few days when in a war zone. He put himself there and Bill and others - just like everyone else did. He provided a small dictionary of military terms and another of Pashto. Just that, nothing more. He didn't even include Sherlock there, just himself and his team.

To lessen the impact, he opened the e-mails with kudos first.

And froze.

Only the first e-mail made his eyes swim. Seventy-eight people clicked Kudos in the first hours after he posted the story. Seventy-eight.

He quickly opened the other two and made the uncomplicated calculation.

Two hundred and three.

There were over two hundred people out there who had read what he wrote and considered it at least entertaining, if not worthy of praise.

Yeah, praise. Praise was in the comments.

There were fourteen of them and they were invariably positive.

"Loved it! So many details!"

"Wow, dude! Army stuff!"

"I appreciate the level of detail you included in the descriptions. Are you a military person yourself?"

"<3"

"Soldiers, always make me a bit hot..."

And so on. Basically... He could count the attempt as positive. Enthusiastically received, more precisely. He scrolled down the page and clicked his first "Reply". It was nice to reply to the comments. Simply proper. He had had a look around the other stories and learnt the expected forms - thank the person for a comment, make a short answer to whatever question they may have, blah blah.

Somehow it was even more satisfying than the interaction on his blog. Here people didn't know him. Their reaction was not determined by their relationship with him. They were honest and forthright.

It was a delight.

He stayed in for an hour more - ordering the papers and typing a draft of the next chapter. Good. It was going to be good. His time in the Army deserved a proper memoir, and why not one like this, he asked himself. Why not.

 

#

 

Sherlock got himself cut by a madman with a knife. At least the attacker's weapon had a clean, straight and relatively sharp blade, so the outcome wasn't too hideous. John's stitches across the expanse of pale, smooth skin looked like a blemish, but at least it was a temporary one, unlike the ones he carried himself, evidence of his encounters on the front and back home.

Somehow he ended up showing Sherlock the third ugliest piece of himself, just as an example of what an old, badly-sewn wound may look like. The man seemed fascinated - of course, if something was even slightly disgusting or disturbing, he loved it.

John took proper care of the shallow cut - if he couldn't stop Sherlock from collecting these wounds, he could at least help to prevent them from marring the detective's body permanently. **That** would have been a shame. Nothing should be allowed to leave a mark on Sherlock.

He noticed that his hands were shaking as he left his flatmate and went upstairs to find some uplifting reading material. Not the tremor. It some something he carefully avoided thinking about before.

An overwhelming need to gather Sherlock in his arms and not let anyone touch him again.

 

#

 

In the end, he wrote the story of how he received one of his wounds - the thin, white line across his calf - as a part of another story. He wanted to let the people know what kind of dangers awaited an unsuspecting newbie out there.

The response to the first two pieces was overwhelming. People praised him for the level of detail, in-depth knowledge of military procedures, the dictionary of most important terms he had provided, the landscape descriptions, the reasonable explanations behind obscure military traditions and the realistic dialogues. People were _gushing_. They were quoting parts of the text and making excited, word-by-word comments on his writing style.

He knew none of his readers were professionals, but still, it was something he started looking forward to. Therefore he gave himself a limit - checking the e-mail and AO3 inbox no more often than twice a week. Otherwise he could get lost for hours in witty exchange of remarks with some of his readers.

People seemed willing to engage him in conversation about what he wrote. To ask for his expertise in military matters. Some sought his opinion in minor matters they wanted to include in their stories.

In short time, he became a bit of an expert that the young writers - people writing _about him_ for fun - turned to for help. That was a bit eerie.

 

#

 

What was even more eerie was Sherlock's behaviour. After each incident that led to some mending by John, Sherlock was a bit subdued for a day or two, but now it went for a week and still his flatmate seemed down. Unexpectedly, the day after, John found the man sitting in their living room with the whole set of dressings and his medical kit ready for the change of bandages, without even being reminded that wounds needed tending.

He had mulled over it on his way to work and the easiest explanation was that Sherlock was a tiny bit vain. Just a bit. And having seen John's ghastly scar had terrified him into better compliance regarding his own skin.

_At least something worked, finally._

 

#

 

He stretched on his bed and opened a new file in the proper writing software he had bought as a birthday present for himself but had never before used. Copying each blog entry into a new chapter took him an hour - all the links and formatting made it a bit slow to transfer. He then reordered the whole thing by proper event dates (instead of post dates) and started making extensive notes.

After all, he could finally put all that collected writing, editing and publishing advice to use and redo his blog into something more tangible. Like a book. A book of crime solving and adventure. After all, if he didn't do it, then who? Nobody else would have done their work the justice it deserved, and even if they tried... why should anyone else _profit_ from their work?

 

#

 

He went downstairs after two hours of slow, but effective work. He put together links that mentioned each of their cases, media coverage, official statements and all photos he could find on his phone and on the net. He made notes on every piece of undocumented text, reminding himself to contact Greg for any details he could possibly find in the police evidence (if he was allowed) and to milk Sherlock's memory for anything that his flatmate might add.

It was going to be a properly documented collection of stories. Unlike some detective novels with half-assed explanations and mistaken clues, this was going to be... correct. Technically correct. He could make it a good read once he had the technical correctness all in. By now he knew his writing style was appreciated by a common man (or common woman, as the gender profile of their fanbase seemed to be a bit unbalanced in the female direction), so he wasn't afraid of that part.

He stepped into the main part of the flat and froze for a moment.

The kitchen counter was empty and clean. The windows must have been opened for a while, because instead of "normal" smell of mould with an undertone of a failed sulphur experiment, he could smell autumn air with a hint of city smoke. A definite improvement.

That made him immediately suspicious. He checked the microwave oven and the range. Nothing. Fridge, nothing (except for two bowls of something suspicious, covered with cling film). Under the sink, nothing.

"OK, Sherlock, I give up. What happened? Where's the corpse?"

His flatmate sauntered into the kitchen and leaned on the door frame, eyebrows high on his forehead.

"Why would there be a corpse, John?"

He sighed and sent a request to heavens for patience. Three seconds prayer, hopefully would be enough.

"Because you cleaned. The kitchen, and... and everything. That makes me immediately suspicious. You even emptied the fridge and I don't see anything weird growing in the oven. So, please, just tell me. Is it the tub? My toothbrush cup? Laundry?"

Sherlock blinked owlishly and looked around.

"Well, I thought..." he trailed off. "I thought you wanted me to clean up... from time to time... But if that's not..."

"No, no, that's... that's very nice. Good. Perfect. I was just..."

He found himself lost in the explanation.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I might be a bit tired after the last days at the clinic. You know how the weather always makes everyone feel sicker than they really are... Well. Tea?"

Sherlock moved a bit, letting him pass.

"Certainly" the dark baritone whispered. "Would you... I mean, I think one of these movies you like is on today. I know you have it on a DVD, but..."

John clicked the kettle on and smiled, looking up at his flatmate.

"Absolutely. Why not see it if it's there. Do you... I mean, which one is it?"

Sherlock pushed the remote button, smirking, and the unmistakable theme of 'Jurassic Park' flooded the room.

"Ah" John grinned. "So, do you want to sit with me and point out all of the scientific inaccuracies?"

 

#

 

The tea was perfect, the room smelt of something green and healthily alive (unlike certain experiments, which had been unhealthily alive), the movie was as brain-melting as it had been ever since it was produced and Sherlock... Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, warm and engaged and alive.

John put his mug on the low table and decided to perform an experiment of his own. Without breaking the eye contact with the screen, he took away Sherlock's mug, placed it next to his own and with one fluid, decisive move, pulled Sherlock's head into a pillow he had placed in his lap.

"Wha...! John?"

"Sh" he commanded. "Watch the movie."

And he started slowly scratching Sherlock's scalp in tiny, tiny increments. First the back of his neck, then behind the ear. Forward, over the eyebrow. Long, slow sweep back to the neck. A tiny nip at the soft skin there with just his fingertips.

The soft moan it elicited from Sherlock's lips was all the reward he needed.

"Scalp massage" he remarked when the scene changed to a landscape. "One of these useless medical trainings they sent us on actually taught me something practical. Do you like it?"

If the half-closed eye and feline-like purr were anything to go by, Sherlock **loved** it.

_So, 'touch-starved' checked off. Definitely. I wonder who came up with this one and how I can thank them for making this diagnosis for me. Now, to combine it with something..._

"Well, this is ridiculous!" Sherlock snarled suddenly, when the scientist on the screen explained how the DNA of the dinosaurs had been patched with frog sequences. "This can only lead to uncontrolled changes in the creatures they produced! They probably didn't even check..."

And that was the moment when another scientist explained that usage of that particular strain of DNA made the dinosaurs potentially able to change their sex.

"Brilliant as always, Sherlock" John gave him a slightly harder rub behind his ear and the detective pushed into the hand, eyes sliding shut in bliss. "You are smarter than these supposed geneticists, aren't you?"

"Obviously, Jouhhn" came a slightly breathy reply. "They were written stupid. I am real and so I am as intelligent as... as..." he trailed off, leaning into John's calloused hand. "Uhm."

"Sh. Watch and tell me what else they failed to predict."

_'Praise kink', oh, yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what happened to Sherlock, hm?


End file.
